Remembrance
by Ohnann
Summary: Sirius tries to live in the present. PoAera.


"**Remembrance" by Ohnann, April/July 2005**

**Disclaimer: HP (c) J.K. Rowling. Not me. **

**Summary: Sirius tries to live in the present. PoA-era.**

**Remembrance**

The air is full of dust he's stirred up, but he breathes deeply nevertheless. He feels oddly at home here, amid the dank stone walls and narrow corridors, and he thinks that _damn_, once he's out, Azkaban finally gets to him.

He chooses, at random, a door-less, asymmetrically crafted dungeon and sinks down in a corner, finally giving in for the night. His too-long, too-thin limbs don't quite obey him anymore. His calves ache, his feet throb dully. With a strangled sigh of relief, he slumps against the stone, resting the back of his head against something that juts out. It smarts, but he'll manage. As long as it won't come to life and suck his weary soul out, he can manage anything.

It's dangerous to have a past. If he dwells on it, everything, _anything_ that has happened to him can surface. He cannot afford that. It will make him unfocused, and he _cannot afford that_. It's hard, though; Hogwarts, Filch, _professor _Moony, even the birds in the sky and the bark on the trees make him remember.

He's given himself restrictions, believing them to help him focus on the goal. The days immediately after his escape, he'd experienced odd moments, where the past and the present both tugged at him, times and events interwoven until he hadn't been able to tell the Hogwarts quidditch pitch from a decidedly Muggle carpark. It had been very unpleasant, to say the least, and he never wanted to experience it again. Therefore, if he lives in the present, _only_ in the present, he reckons he will be fine.

He stretches his legs out in front of him; they almost go out the doorway, that's how small the place is. He can't remember having seen this nook before, though he must have; after all, he'd once mapped the whole jumble. He almost smiles, but reminds himself that the Map is one of those things he just can't dwell upon, and instead focuses his attention on the opposite wall, trying to find something on it that stands out – something he can look at. There's nothing.

His footprints are imprinted on the ever-present dust, but Sirius doesn't care. He's not worried, not at all. It's not likely anyone will discover them anytime soon. No one has been where he is for ages, and he sincerely doubts anyone still remembers that there is more to the dungeons than the Potions classroom and the Slytherin accommodations. In fact, he takes a sort of twisted pride in still knowing Hogwarts so well. Even if the undoubtedly now-even-more-arthritis-ridden Filch had a sudden urge to go after him (dangerous, he was, apparently) Sirius is certain he would be able to hide somewhere, until _he_ chose to reveal himself.

The dust has yet to settle, and he coughs dryly. Barely parts his lips, but nonetheless brings a fist in front of his mouth; he still has manners. His mother's face suddenly pops up in the back of his mind, unbidden, unwanted. He scowls at the figure, bites down on his lower lip – hard – and it goes away again, slipping back to where it came from. If he's lucky, it won't reappear in his dreams.

He does allow himself a few minutes a day to remember; when he's supposed to go to sleep - or doze off, pass out or whatever it was he really did. But he isn't tired enough just yet; he should go through his plan (Kill Peter, save Harry) again, so that it's fresh in his mind when he wakes up next morning, so that he's ready immediately. Tomorrow could be the day when all this came to an end.

In a day or two, he has to get out of the dungeons. He can't stay there for too long; if he does, he fears he'll never get out.

His own hair is in the way, lumpy and scraggly and _all over_. He shifts uncomfortably, willing a sudden image of his younger, silk-haired self away. But it's persistent, won't leave him alone.

Soon enough, yet another memory prods at Sirius. It's James, this time, grinning mischievously, as vivid as if he'd straddled Sirius's lap. And Sirius deflates. This is the kind of memories he finds hard, almost impossible, to push away. He tries his best, though, trying to think about Harry instead, who exists in the present, just like Sirius should.

But it's hard not to reminisce, and even harder not to dwell. He doesn't make it. Never does.

It's dangerous to have a past, yet without his memories, he's nothing.

With piles of dust and the scattered bones of something tiny (a rat?) for only company, he embraces his knees, rests his chin against a protruding kneecap, closes his eyes – and remembers.

Fin

**ohnann at kittymail dot com**


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